Lessons of the Camino De Santiago Part 1
- Shelley DeMarco Muellner
- 6 days ago
- 4 min read
Hello dear friends,
I’m writing to you today from the Camino de Santiago — one of the most ancient pilgrimage routes in the world. I’ve set out from the small French town of St. Jean Pied de Port, climbing over the Pyrenees and into Spain, carrying with me both a backpack and an open heart.
In just a few days, I’ll arrive in Pamplona, where I’ll be joining a workshop with Richard Schwartz, the founder of Internal Family Systems (IFS). This is a chance to deepen my expertise with the very creator of a modality that has touched so many lives — mine, my clients’, and perhaps yours too.
But before stepping into the classroom, I felt called to step onto the path. To give myself to the Camino for a few days. To taste its beauty, its challenges, and its quiet wisdom. I wanted to arrive not only with my notes and my questions, but with my body strengthened, my spirit softened, and my heart wide open.
Over the next few emails, I’ll be sharing with you “Lessons of the Camino” — short reflections from the trail. They’re stories of breathtaking views and unexpected struggles, of resilience found in the middle of nowhere, of prayers whispered bead by bead on a rosary made for me by one of my veteran clients.
The Camino, like life itself, is a mixture of beauty and challenge. Both are essential. Both are teachers. And I want to bring you along with me for the walk.
With love from the trail,
Shelley
Read on for my Day 1 Reflections:
Lessons of the Camino: Day One
The adventure began in St. Jean Pied de Port, a place as storybook-beautiful as its name suggests. The cobblestone streets, the flower-draped balconies, the crisp mountain air—it all felt like the opening pages of a great tale.
I had come to the Camino with a purpose: in three days’ time, I needed to arrive in Pamplona for a workshop with none other than Richard Schwartz, the creator of Internal Family Systems (IFS). The opportunity to deepen my practice with the master himself was the anchor of this trip. But in the spirit of the Camino, I had arrived a few days early, determined to taste the pure essence of the pilgrimage, to sharpen my physical strength and resilience, and to experience the Camino Francés from its official beginning.
My plan was ambitious: walk from St. Jean Pied de Port to Roncesvalles on Day One—a trek of about 25 kilometers (15.5 miles) climbing over the Pyrenees. A true baptism by fire.
If I could do it again, I would have given myself one more day to rest and prepare, to really soak in the beauty before setting off. Instead, I overslept. By the time I rushed out the door, backpack bouncing on my shoulders, I felt less like a serene pilgrim and more like Bilbo Baggins realizing the company of dwarves had left without him. I was flustered, behind, scrambling to catch up. That hurried, confused, “wait for me” feeling followed me for much of the day.
And yet, the Camino has a way of softening even the roughest beginnings. The weather was a gift from the heavens—sunlight warm on my shoulders, a cool breeze in the shade, skies that stretched wide and endless. Not too hot, not too cold. Perfection. I don’t think I could ever imagine walking this route in another season; the day was painted with such balance and grace.
Crossing from France into Spain on foot felt like something holy. Each step carried me deeper into a landscape that seemed to breathe—green hills rolling outward, the occasional bell tower rising from a village below, the path stretching ahead like a ribbon inviting me into mystery. It was beautiful beyond words.
But of course, the Camino teaches that every gift comes with its challenge.
My challenge began as the trail led me into the forest. At first, it was enchanting—trees closing in like old guardians, a stream tumbling beside me, the hush of solitude wrapping around me like a blanket. I saw no one. Not a single pilgrim. At first, it felt magical. Then, as the climb steepened, it began to feel desolate. The silence grew heavy. My legs burned with the endless uphill. The weight of the journey settled in, and I wondered if I had bitten off more than I could chew.
I paused in a charming village for lunch, sunlight glinting off stone houses, the air alive with birdsong. Looking back, I wish I had stopped there for the night. But instead, I pressed on into the long afternoon, where the trail narrowed into loneliness.
Each time the weight of exhaustion threatened to break me, I sat, pulled out the rosary a beloved veteran client had made for me, and let my fingers move bead by bead. The rhythm became a mantra, pulling me out of despair and into presence. I learned the rosary is not only prayer—it is medicine, a lifeline of grace when the body falters and the mind begins to unravel.
Still, the uphill seemed endless. The solitude thickened into a kind of dark night of the soul. Like a psychedelic journey, the Camino revealed both light and shadow: moments of wonder giving way to raw reflection, despair, and the reckoning of mistakes I’d been carrying.
It was in one of those lowest moments that Mark called. I told him how lost and tired I felt, how heavy my legs were, how alone the woods seemed. He tried to encourage me, but when he gently reminded me how much further I still had to climb, something inside me snapped. I broke open. I sobbed, raw and unrestrained, in the middle of the forest. Tears poured out, echoing the stream beside me. There is something profoundly human about crying alone among the trees, stripped bare by exhaustion, humbled by nature.
And yet, when the tears were spent, I rose. The only way was forward. Step by step, breath by breath.
That first day was not the pilgrimage I imagined. It was harder, lonelier, more humbling. And it was also more extraordinary. The Camino gave me my first lesson immediately: resilience is not a thing you pack with you—it is something the road calls forth from you, one painful, beautiful step at a time.